


nothing sacred / all things wild

by sevensided (stonedlennon)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 1990s, 90s, Also El is haunting Nancy (like actually haunting her), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - FBI, F/F, Jewish Wheelers, Late Night Conversations, Lesbian Nancy Wheeler, Mutual Pining, Psychoanalysis, Psychological Trauma, Robin gets Nancy drunk and they talk about trauma, Unethical/Bad Decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:41:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29574762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedlennon/pseuds/sevensided
Summary: Nancy Wheeler wants to be signed off so she can return to the field after a traumatic case. Her psychiatrist, Robin Buckley, has other ideas.
Relationships: Robin Buckley/Nancy Wheeler
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	nothing sacred / all things wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strangertheory](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=strangertheory).



> This oneshot is inspired by a conversation between [myself](https://sevensided.tumblr.com/) and [strangertheory](https://strangertheory.tumblr.com/) on the idea of Nancy being a lesbian. That conversation would not leave my head. Hence: this oneshot.
> 
> This is the Tumblr post for this work, and [here's a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3AFFeoRsTnH72Zqwr8ZTi3?si=owK_enS0SsiZJj26W20slw) I created for it too.
> 
>  **Warning:** The traumatic case mentioned in the summary is an AU version of Eleven's canonical kidnapping by Brenner. Please note that, as such, there are allusions to violence in this work.

This is the last time.

Nancy looks away from Buckley’s face and focuses on the sweeping Quantico lawn outside. Dusk hangs low and heavy, clasping the grounds like a bruise. Flakes of snow drift past, illuminated only by the sullen lamp glow, looking as spectral as the ash that haunts her dreams.

Feeling Buckley’s gaze on her, Nancy drops her eyes to her hands, which are clasped tightly in her lap. The dermatitis has returned. It’s stress related, or so her doctor says. The dry, painful patches are unsightly. She wishes she’d kept her gloves on.

Buckley’s office is warmer than the rest of the building. Understandable, given the heating system at the academy is set to accommodate the resting body temperature of a middle-aged man. As Nancy is neither middle-aged or male, she’s had to make do with cardigans and oversized field jackets, pretending as if she enjoyed feeling like the Michelin man as her colleagues sauntered around in shirt sleeves. She finds Buckley’s warm office comforting for this reason.

There are other reasons, too. That’s why this has to be the last time.

“Agent Wheeler?”

Buckley’s voice is husky, as if with cigarettes or laughter, like she’s recalling a private joke. Nancy has never seen Buckley smoke, but she enjoys the image. Her brother, Mike, smokes in long, languid draws. It is tempting to think that Buckley would do the same, but she gets an air of impatience from the psychiatrist.

No, if Buckley smoked it would be short, sharp, pointed. A period at the end of a definitive statement.

“Agent Wheeler.”

The snow is falling heavily. She looks back at Buckley. “Do you smoke?”

Buckley tilts her head. Maybe she was expecting Nancy to change the subject. _You’ve been deflecting like a pro for a year now._ Yeah, well, she wasn’t going to stop just because Buckley’s cat-blue eyes rested on her just-so.

“I did,” Buckley replies hoarsely, the sound shivering down Nancy’s spine. “Not anymore, though.”

“Why did you stop?”

Raising her chin slightly, Buckley says, “I have an addictive personality. It’s important for me to set boundaries for myself.”

Nancy makes a face of acknowledgement. “I could never do that. I’ve tried, but… For some reason I keep going back to things that hurt me.”

“Is that why you became an FBI Agent?”

“No.” It’s the truth. “I became an FBI Agent because I wanted to do some good in this messed up world.”

“Would you say you do that?” Buckley gestures with her pen, her other hand on the open notebook in her lap. There are few notes; Nancy figures she must put them down after the sessions. “You bring good into the world?”

Nancy laughs once, in surprise. “I… guess you’d have to ask someone else. I like to think I do. I –”

The girl with the shaved head blinks at her from the corner of the room.

“I-I’ve tried. I can say that much.”

The corner is empty, save for shadow. There’s nothing there.

Nancy refocuses on Buckley. Her dark blonde hair gleams in this low light. As usual, Nancy wonders how many freckles Buckley actually has. They’re everywhere. They roughen up her polished pantsuits and sharp haircut. Remnants of some past summer life spent in the sun, staying out too late, brown as a nut. Nancy can’t quite imagine Buckley as a child, or even a teenager. She’s opaque; a clouded pearl.

Something flickers in Buckley’s neutral expression.

“I already deflected once, doctor,” Nancy intuits with a small smile. “Don’t make me talk about the weather.”

“Alright.” Buckley lowers her pen and mirrors Nancy’s smile. “Have _you_ tried smoking before?”

“No.” Jonathan was the smoker, stubbing butts out in the overflowing glass ashtrays that pockmarked their apartment. “I don’t have the patience.”

“You said you found setting boundaries hard for yourself. How come?”

“Oldest child syndrome,” she jokes. “There was always someone else to do it for me.”

“Who comes to mind when you say that?”

My mother. My brother. My lovers.

Nancy shrugs. Buckley doesn’t quite purse her lips, but the lines around her eyes tighten. Sometimes, Nancy is tempted to tell Buckley that she’s not missing the target: her aim is true. Arrowheads embedded in soft flesh. The problem is that Nancy doesn’t feel the pain the way she used to.

“I’ve always been the golden girl.” Nancy’s voice hesitates in the warm air, scented with perfume and the strong black tea Buckley brews every session. Bergamot and frankincense. “It’s not difficult for me to… succeed. So, if or when I ever fucked up, people forgave me. I guess I got used to that feeling. That forgiveness.”

Buckley’s eyes are slow and steady on hers. “You’ve avoided accountability.”

“Yeah. I guess. But that makes me sound –” Nancy shakes her head and tightens her fists. “Like some stupid, privileged little girl who doesn’t care about other people.”

“Earlier, you said you wanted to be an FBI Agent because you wanted to do good in the world. Does that sound like someone who doesn’t care about other people?”

“No. But that’s different. That’s duty.”

“You’re honour-bound,” Buckley interprets. “Faithful.”

“Faithless,” Nancy corrects. After a beat she smiles, this time tiredly. “But that depends on your perspective.”

In a rare flash of her hand, Buckley says, “I wouldn’t say you’re faithless. Lost, maybe. Used to relying on other people to reflect the good parts of yourself, so you don’t have to.”

“So, you’re saying I have low self-esteem?” The corner of Nancy’s smile twitches into a smirk. “Gee, I didn’t know I had to join the academy to get a two-buck consultation.”

Buckley grins and Nancy’s breath hitches.

“Maybe I phrased that wrong,” Buckley admits, spreading her hands, _mea culpa._ “What I meant to say was that it sounds like you’re used to people stepping aside when you go past. But the dead can’t do that, can they?”

Buckley rubs her lips together, then adds: “How did it feel when you saved that girl, Nancy?”

Those eyes are blue as a summer sky. Nancy looks back out the window. Petals of snow fall thickly, coating the dark grounds. Dusk has given way to evening. She lets these thoughts come to her abstractedly, like lights from distant stars, to avoid the presence in the room.

She’s there again. Nancy can feel her.

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Her voice is stronger than she feels. Looking back at Buckley, Nancy says, “Ask me about smoking again.”

“I could,” Buckley acknowledges. “But we’ve talked about smoking for almost a year. I have to sign off on you sometime, you know.”

“Maybe I just enjoy your company,” Nancy says boldly.

“I’m flattered. But you could always talk to me in the staff room, if you want my company that badly.”

Nancy leans back in the leather armchair and crosses her legs primly. “Wouldn’t that contravene some kind of confidentiality thing? Do I even exist to you outside these walls?”

“Sure. But first, I have an obligation.”

Narrowing her eyes, Nancy says, “So, you’re saying that until I tell you about that girl, we can’t talk normally?”

Buckley purses her lips again, like she’s fighting with herself. Eventually, she says, “I wouldn’t put it like that.”

“But –”

“Basically, yes.”

“Wow.” Nancy stifles a laugh. “And I thought field agents had the reputation for being unethical.”

“Maybe it’s time our conversations in this room had an expiration date.” Buckley thinks for a moment. “Or an incentive.”

Nancy feels her expression shift. “An incentive?”

“Yes.” Casting those bright eyes around the room, Buckley stands up in a whisper of tan silk and strides to the cabinet behind her vast desk. Nancy watches as Buckley opens it and takes out two mugs and a bottle of wine. Her heels are sinking into the plush carpet. As she returns to their armchairs, the lamplight falls upon the wine label, and this time Nancy laughs unguardedly.

“Isn’t that stuff like, five dollars?”

Buckley studies the label as she takes her seat. “Probably. I got it in a Christmas hamper from the Psych department. I’ve been afraid to open it.” Putting the two mugs down on the small side table, Buckley cracks the screw-top and pours out an acrid-smelling red. She catches and holds Nancy’s curious gaze. “I would apologise, but as I’m subjecting myself to this too, I think we can call it even.”

Buckley hands her a mug, which Nancy accepts. Amused, she says, “Do you always drink with your patients?”

“Only the ones I like.” Buckley raises her own mug in toast. “Za nashu druzjbu.”

“Cheers.” The wine is sharp and cheap. “Oh, God.” Nancy coughs. “This reminds me of college.”

Buckley wrinkles her nose and settles back in her chair, holding the mug as if it were a goblet. “I’m not sure if this was a bad idea or not.”

“What, the drinking or the bribery?”

“Both, now that you mention it.”

They catch each other’s eyes and laugh. It’s absurd, sitting here in this spiced room as the snow falls and the dead girl watches from the darkened corner. It’s absurd that this is becoming the nicest evening Nancy has had in weeks.

Nancy composes herself. “You know, normally I’d be at home right now eating Chinese takeout.”

“Do you watch TV when you eat?” Buckley swirls her mug in one easy hand. “Or are you a reader?”

“I work,” Nancy admits. “Sometimes I’ll put music on but… I don’t have good taste, apparently. I prefer silence.”

“I can’t stand silence. I need the radio on in the background, or the TV turned down low.”

“That would drive me crazy.”

“Imagine if I picked up smoking again.” Buckley smirks over her wine. Nancy’s pulse falters. She hides it in another sip and feels it spike in her stomach.

“Was that Russian?” Nancy asks abruptly, wine prickling in her throat. Buckley tilts her mug in acknowledgement.

“It was. I took a class in college. A whim led to a degree change, led to a minor obsession…”

“You majored in Russian?”

Buckley smiles at the note of intrigue in her tone. “I did. Much to the delight of my all-American parents.”

“Learning Russian isn’t inherently anti-patriotic.”

“Try telling them that.”

This glimpse into Buckley’s life is oddly dizzying. Nancy takes another sip of wine though she feels it twitching in her fingers. Normally, she doesn’t drink; she’s a beer girl, if at all. There is something heady about drinking wine with her psychiatrist – and out of mugs, for God’s sake.

Buckley showed her cards before. Maybe Nancy can do the same. Flashes in the dark.

“Tell me about them. Your parents.”

“Oh, dear.” It sounds like she wants to say _Oh, man,_ but that really would propel them into college days. Buckley looks down into her wine, a private smile playing along those full lips. “I normally reserve the familial confessions until much later.”

“Okay. I get it.” Nancy leans forward. “How about this? I ask a question that you have to answer, and you get to ask me something in return.”

“And you have to answer?”

“That’s the way it works.”

“Huh.” Buckley studies her, a glimmer of appreciation in her expression. “If I’d known all it took was some wine and a game to get you to open up, I would have brought out the nice whiskey.”

“I don’t drink whiskey,” Nancy says, “but I appreciate the gesture.”

“Alright. I accept. But you’re allowed one ‘get out of jail free’ card. Just to keep some mystery.”

“Deal.” Shifting in her chair, Nancy holds out her hand for Buckley to shake. Her hand is warm and dry, and her nails are cut short, like Nancy’s. They let go.

Taking a fortifying drink of wine, Nancy says, “Do you want to go first, or should I?”

Buckley tucks a loop of blonde hair behind one ear and crosses her legs, mirroring Nancy. She raises her mug to her lips and, before she drinks, says, “Ladies first.”

Excitement zips through her like electricity. “Okay.” There is possibility here, but she cannot get carried away. She’s always loved mysteries.

“Why did you become a psychiatrist if you enjoy Russian so much?”

“That’s an easy one. Because I like people. I like listening to them. Figuring them out.”

“So, you like games too.”

“Not so much games as riddles.”

“You think people are riddles?”

“I think people are exactly like riddles.” Buckley ponders her wine for a moment. “My turn. Why do you like Chinese food? You said that if you were home right now you’d have takeout.”

Nancy laughed. “That’s easy. We always had Chinese on Christmas. It was our tradition. Our… Jewish rebellion against the totally conservative Christian cul-de-sac my parents settled on. I guess it’s my comfort food.”

Buckley smiles. “My girlfriend in college was Jewish. Her family preferred Korean food, though.”

_Girlfriend._

“Oh. I see.”

Those blue eyes trace the contours of Nancy’s expression. “That doesn’t bother you, does it?” Then, boldly, as if it were a dare: “That I’m a lesbian?”

Nancy’s chest constricts. She shakes her head hard, ponytail fanning heavily over her shoulders. “No – No, not at all. I’m – no. I’m fine.” Nancy bites her lip once, briefly. “What was her, um, name?”

“My girlfriend?”

Nancy nods.

“Samantha. It didn’t last very long. We were too similar.”

“Yeah,” Nancy says, thinking of the boys she’d tried to love. “I know what that’s like.”

Buckley makes a small sound, like a hum, but otherwise doesn’t respond. After another sip of wine, she asks: “My turn again. Do you think you’re lost, Nancy?”

The girl with the shaved head is staring at her again. Hollow-cheeked with dirty bare feet. Nancy had carried her out in the snow, bundled against her chest like an offering, her screams torn away by the Atlantic wind.

Nancy’s mug is empty. She can’t remember finishing it.

“No.” Then: “Sometimes.”

“Most of the time?”

Nancy looks up at Buckley.

“Yes. Most of the time, yeah.”

Buckley’s expression is peaceable, neutral. Only the slight stutter in her blink gives the wine away. “Have your feelings of being lost exacerbated since you rescued Jane Doe?”

A flash of red hair. Plump cheeks. Steve Harrington’s hands underneath her shirt. _Go home, Barb._ Why did you listen? Why didn’t you stay? _Because she trusted me. She thought I would make the right decision, as I always did, for myself, for both of us._

“No,” Nancy says hoarsely. She clears her throat and frowns to concentrate. “No… I think I’ve always felt lost, in some way. I’ve lost a lot, and I think that… does something to a person. It hollows you out. Like you’re waiting to be filled with something.”

“With things that hurt you,” Buckley murmurs. “Do you deserve that hurt, Nancy?”

Nancy blinks. Her eyelashes are wet. The realisation is startling – _this is why you don’t drink_ – as much as it is relieving. Arrowheads in flesh. Perhaps the pain is real after all.

“I think… I do deserve it. Because without it I would be empty. I don’t want that.”

“No one wants to be empty. I don’t think you’re alone in feeling that way.”

“Maybe. But I am alone. I can’t –” Frustration sticks in her throat, and she dashes her damp eyes in a feinting motion, though it’s pointless. Buckley has seen; she doesn’t miss much. “I can’t put how I feel onto other people. It’s up to _me_ to carry it. It’s my responsibility. If everyone could just listen to me instead of trying to –”

“Help you?” Buckley suggests archly. “Support you?”

Jonathan. Steve. “They don’t want to support me,” Nancy snaps. “They want to fix me. I don’t need fixing.”

“No one should try and fix you. That has negative connotations. But to trust someone to help shoulder your burden – that’s different.”

“No.” Nancy shakes her head again. “I don’t need that either. I’m fine.”

Buckley leans back in her chair and tilts her head. “Are you? Because we’ve had these sessions once a week for a year, and it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

At last. The Ace.

Nancy raises an eyebrow at her. “Don’t try and bait me into admitting this has been useful.”

“I’m doing no such thing,” Buckley objects, but when their eyes meet, she smirks.

Picking up the bottle of wine, she gets to her feet and crosses the short distance between them. The red pours easily.

This close, Nancy can smell her perfume. Until now it’s been a whisper, but now she breathes in musk and smoke, and something sticky, like syrup. It’s too sweet, too bitter, it reminds Nancy of the air after a lightning storm, or after sex: the act lingering like an apparition, charcoal too dark to fade.

Nancy pulls her eyes up Robin’s long legs to her wide hips, narrow waist, the swell of her bust. She is breathing quickly. Nancy traces Robin’s lips, her nose, and comes to rest in her eyes, which are blue as a flame. Did you know that lightning turns sand to glass? Robin’s jugular, her heartbeat, moving, thumping. Waiting. Nancy swallows.

“Who’s turn is it?” Robin asks quietly. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine,” Nancy murmurs.

When Robin steps back, Nancy feels her absence. Flashing her a smile, Robin retreats to her seat and sits down, crossing her legs, putting the bottle of wine back on the side table. She takes up her own mug and again toasts.

“Fire away, Agent.”

Nancy’s breath shudders on the exhale. “Okay. Um…” _Focus._ “What’s the most difficult thing about your job?”

Anyone else might be disappointed by this obvious last-ditch question, but Robin merely considers it, pursing her lips as she thinks.

“The hardest part is that I can’t take the burden from people,” she replies. “It sucks having to watch someone struggle, when it would be so easy if I could step in.”

Interesting response. “Have you ever done that for someone? Step in, I mean.”

“No.” Robin’s smile is gentle. “I might bend the rules now and then, but I can’t get in the way of someone’s process. It wouldn’t be fair.” She sips her wine. “How do you get to sleep at night?”

“What makes you think I have trouble falling asleep?”

“The rings beneath your eyes,” Robin says bluntly. “The tension in your body that accompanies a fear of disassociating. Hyper-awareness. You’re trying to make every moment count.”

Nancy’s smile is brief. “You really don’t miss anything, do you?”

“It’s my job. As is yours.”

“Point taken.” The reflection in her wine is glossy, distorted. The girl in the corner has gone. “Honestly… I don’t know. I’ve tried everything. Counting sheep. Earplugs. I went through a, um, aerobics phase.” She smirks at the memory. “I borrowed a workout video and did a routine before I went to bed. It didn’t work. I took pills for a while, but they made me…” _Worse._ “I didn’t feel like myself.”

Robin made another noise of understanding. “When your grasp on reality is loose it’s best not to make it looser.”

“That makes me sound like an addict.”

“I’m the one with the addictive personality, remember?” Raising an eyebrow, Robin adds: “You’re fine. I promise. Besides, there’s new research that shows Type-A personality types can’t actually get addicted to anything.”

Nancy frowns, bemused. “I’m not Type-A.”

“You have an achievement-driven mentality. You can be hasty and impatient. You’re competitive. You’re productive, proactive, you have strong time-management skills, your peers might describe you as a ‘workaholic’ –”

“Okay. Okay.” Flushing, Nancy buries herself in another sip of wine. “I take back what I said about the two-buck consultation.”

Robin grins. “I can run through some other checklists if you like. How’s your depression?”

Grimly, Nancy says, “I’m beginning to regret this game.”

Robin’s laugh is a sweet sound. “Don’t be. I’m just messing around.”

“I think that makes it my turn.” Outside, the world is blanketed in velvet. The warm yellow lamp is the only source of light, ensconcing the office in a pulsating darkness that laps at their edges. Nancy sinks back in her armchair, at last allowing the wine to unspool through her. She’s drunk, just.

Nancy studies the woman opposite her. “Does it ever get lonely?” she asks abruptly. “You spend all day trying to help other people sort out their problems. Who sorts out yours?”

Robin clears her throat, as if she’s taken aback. “Uh, well. No one. Not really. I’m self-sufficient like that.” When it’s apparent Nancy’s waiting for more, Robin adds: “I’m used to being self-sufficient. My parents were very… hands off. Growing up I spent a lot of time alone. No one paid much attention to me. If I needed tending to, I had to do it myself.”

“What was that like?”

“Lonely,” Robin admits.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Can you imagine what I’d be like if I had your upbringing?” Robin drinks some wine, her eyes downcast.

Frowning, Nancy turns over the implication like a stone in hand. “What do you mean? My upbringing was fine.”

“Key word,” Robin reminds her, eyebrows raising. “‘Fine.’”

“Oh. I get it. Because I’m not torn up over my parents’ mundanity, I must be okay with it?”

“No. Although I suspect whatever teenage rebellion you exhibited burned out pretty fast when you realised how pointless it was.”

“Is that what you think?” Nancy replies sharply. “You think I gave up?”

“Again, no. I’m not being provocative. I don’t think you give up easily. I think you adapted.” A beat. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”

Nancy blinks fast, a lump forming in her throat. Memories of another conversation, verbatim to this one, rise in her mind, and she fights to focus on Robin, the office, snow. That had been the nail in the coffin between her and Jonathan: she didn’t give enough. Come to think of it, that was the death knell for her and Steve, too.

Slowly, eventually, Nancy says, “No. I… don’t think you’re wrong. Exactly.”

“See.” Robin’s eyes are glittering, although her expression is taut, hesitating on the knife-edge of apology. “I told you you’d get something out of this.”

The laugh knocks out of her. Nancy smooths a hand over the side of her face, closing her eyes in brief resignation.

“Yeah. You’re right. Maybe this is useful. I don’t know.”

In the quiet that follows, Nancy hears nothing except the gentle sound of Robin breathing. A deep silence has swallowed Quantico. Even the world outside seems far away, a dreamscape from another time.

“I’m sorry,” Robin says into this quiet, and Nancy meets her gaze. “That was unprofessional of me. I didn’t mean to antagonise you.”

“You didn’t antagonise me,” Nancy replies, her own honesty surprising her. “It’s something I’ve been – Well, ‘working on’ makes it sound like it’s an active effort. I’m _aware,_ I guess, of how my life seems to other people. I try to take that into consideration, only…” Jonathan’s pinched face flashes through her mind. “I think I’ve been punished for it one too many times.”

“Do you feel punished when you’re honest?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it really punishment,” Robin says carefully, “or is it hubris?”

Nancy frowns. “Hubris? What – I don’t follow.”

“Do you feel personally attacked when someone disagrees with you, or tries to show you a different way of thinking?”

Nancy feels her defences creep over her skin like armour. “I’m not pigheaded. I do listen to people.”

“But do you empathise with them? Can you see where they’re coming from, when they say things that, to you, feel like a type of punishment?”

_Nancy, I want to go home. Wait, you think us being in love is bullshit? You’ve got it pretty good, Nance, you know, you just have to be patient._

Nancy puts her mug on the side table and fists her hands in her lap. The dermatitis burns, pink and shiny, in the low light. She swallows, but the lump in her throat makes it difficult.

“No.” The word falls heavily between them. “No. I don’t do that.”

Robin’s voice is gentle, pitched low, as if talking to a startled animal. “Nancy, none of this makes you a bad person. You’re a good person. But sometimes we have to let other people part the curtain so they can show you something different, something you might not have thought about before.”

The urge to run into the dark and scream was becoming overwhelming.

Injecting some humour into her tone, Nancy says, “So, what you’re saying is that along with low self-esteem, I’m also an egomaniac who lacks empathy for other people?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Robin drawls. “I can see I’ve upset you. Maybe we should change the topic.”

“No more deflections,” Nancy reminds her bitterly. “Remember?”

“No more deflections,” Robin agrees.

They watch each other. Two sides of the same coin.

Something heady swells in her chest. The air clasps around her. Nancy can’t feel the girl anymore; her absence gives her permission. When she swallows this time, the lump has dissolved.

Nancy lifts her chin. “What do you want to know about Jane Doe?”

It’s imperceptible, but Nancy sees Robin suck in a startled breath.

Neutrally, Robin says, “Whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

Nancy laughs shortly. “I should have known you’d say something like that.” She watches Robin for another beat before getting to her feet. Nancy walks to the window and, crossing her arms over her chest, looks out the darkened window. The woman reflected back at her is tall, too thin, strong jawed. Strong-willed.

“Ask me a question,” Nancy says. “And I’ll answer.”

The glass shows Robin shift in her seat. “Alright,” she replies slowly, then pauses. “Does she haunt you?”

Nancy’s heart twists so painfully she has to close her eyes.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Do you see her when you’re awake?”

“I see her all the time. I see her in my dreams.” Nancy turns her head towards the far corner. It’s just a bookcase, now, but still the shadow wrinkles. Light flares in polaroids. “She was there, earlier.”

“Is she here now?”

“No. But I think it’s because I’m a little drunk.”

“Do you regret saving her?”

“No!” Anger strikes through her like lightning. “Never.”

“Do you wish you’d done something differently, in rescuing her?”

Nancy opens her eyes and stares blankly at her reflection. “I wish she weren’t dead. That would be a nice start.”

Gently, Robin says, “We all have regrets, Nancy. The difficult thing for an agent in your position is reconciling human nature with your profession.”

“I know I’m not a machine,” Nancy intuits. “And I know I can’t change why Jane was in that man’s house, or why he kidnapped her, or whatever messed up things he did to her, or made her do. I can’t change any of that. But I wish I could have found her in time so she could – shit, I don’t know. So she could have _overcome_ all of that and been a kid again.”

Half to herself: “She was just a kid.”

Robin sounds as if she is treading on broken glass. “I read in your report that you accompanied Jane to the hospital. You weren’t present for Martin Brenner’s arrest. In your mind, was that the right choice?”

Nancy frowns, then winces. She’s frowned a lot tonight – her temple twinges with the onset of a migraine.

“Maybe,” she replies vaguely. “Sorry, I –”

“Don’t apologise.” Robin’s voice is firm behind her. “I understand how difficult these memories are for you.”

“It’s hard to remember what the rescue was like,” Nancy admits. “But I’m ready to… Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m ready to go back to the field. Mostly, I wonder I’m squashing this down just like I do with…”

She does not reach for her words as they slip away into the scented air.

“I understand,” Robin says again, and for the first time in a long while, Nancy doesn’t think it’s bullshit. After a beat, Robin says, “Did you listen to Martin Brenner’s testimony?”

He was tall, above average. Fit. Silver fox hair that lent him a movie star quality, like those old films Nancy’s sister, Holly, watched on late night TV. Brenner was coldly polite, almost indifferent, a foreigner stolidly comfortable with sharing your train car and sitting in silence for hours. Only Brenner did not sit in silence. His questioning reminded Nancy of some classified government document, the back-and-forth between Brenner and Sinclair lyrical and shrouded in double entendre. Brenner operated under the assumption he knew far more than he did about police procedure. Sinclair’s mistake was allowing Brenner to play the game for as long as he did.

“Yes,” Nancy replies at last, turning away from the window, meeting Robin’s calm gaze from across the room. Her voice is crisp as a dry snap, frost underfoot. “All seven hours of it.”

“And?”

“It was full of pretty words,” Nancy says, “for something so monstrous.”

“Is Martin Brenner a monster in your mind?”

“Can he be anything else?”

“He can be human,” Robin offers evenly, tilting her head to the side. “Just as all the criminals you’ve ever caught are.”

Anger bristles down her back. “If you’re trying to get me to sympathise with a man who kidnapped a child and held her hostage for twelve years, I’m afraid you don’t know me very well.”

Robin’s head returns to centre. There is something brimming in her expression; it makes Nancy wants to kiss or crush, she’s not sure which.

“My point is that Martin Brenner’s actions are not fantastical. Thinking of him as a monster implies what he has done is somehow beyond the realm of possibility. Statistically, his actions are as terrible and mundane as all acts of violence are.”

“Yes, of course,” Nancy snaps, irritated by this diplomatic summary of events. “ _Logically,_ yes, all of that is true. But that’s not how I feel. How I feel is that – that _man_ is a disgusting piece of shit. And I’m not for capital punishment, but if ever someone deserving the fucking chair, it was him.”

Robin considers her for a long moment, then gets to her feet.

“Tell me about Jane.”

Nancy’s eyelashes stutter.

“Jane?”

“Yes. Tell me about her.”

Her heart swells in her chest. Pressing her eyes closed, Nancy turns to the side, concentrating on breathing. Once composed, she looks back at Robin. They’re standing across from each other. Robin, easy with her hands in the pockets of her tan silk trousers. Nancy, with her arms tightly crossed over her narrow ribcage. One too many skipped dinners will do that to you.

Nancy feels her expression wrinkle. Robin holds her gaze. A blue flame burning in the dark.

“What do you want to know?” she whispers.

Quietly, Robin asks: “What is it about Jane that affects you, Nancy? You’ve been in the force since you were nineteen. The academy since you were twenty-five. For close to ten years you’ve worked alongside the BSU unit, catching some of the most dangerous people in our country. You’ve seen thousands of cases. What is it about this one, specifically?” A pause. “Why Jane?”

Nancy’s mouth twitches.

“Robin,” she says, voice catching on the truth, “I wish to God I knew.”

They watch each other. Blue-black shadows dance at the edges, dipping toes into their circle of light. Nancy’s eyesight blurs at the edges, but Robin is in sharp detail. Those freckles, her eyes. Nancy does not think about dying, but she thinks she could drown in that endless blue.

Then, Robin is taking her hands from her pockets. She is walking towards Nancy. Heels in carpet; soundless. This time, she is breathing slowly. She is certain.

 _I am not certain. I am so rarely certain._ If Nancy closes her eyes this might not hurt so much.

“Robin,” she says instead. “Robin –”

“Nancy.” Her name lingers in the sigh between them.

“I –”

“Nancy,” Robin murmurs. “This is your ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

As if in slow motion, she raises a hand and hesitates by Nancy’s cheek. It is not a presumption; this is a question.

Nancy does not have an answer.

“Are you changing the subject?” she whispers, and when Robin inclines her head, she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Wicked heat prickles over her body; the hairs on her arms stand on end. Robin’s fingers trail along her cheekbone and curl around her jaw. Nancy’s mouth parts reflexively. Robin runs a thumb over Nancy’s bottom lip, and the action whispers of a possession Nancy has never let herself succumb to before. Her heart is beating so hard Robin must hear it. Hot perfume, the brush of Robin’s breasts against her own. Crowding me in. Surrounding me.

“Please,” she breathes, and Robin swallows the distance.

Their kiss is firm, full, bruising. Robin takes Nancy’s chin and tips her head up, and Nancy goes helplessly, pressing her body against Robin’s in a clasp that sends something trembling through her. Robin’s other hand burns into the dip of Nancy’s waist. They kiss in long fluid movements, each sip honeyed and greedy. Nancy pulls back enough to gently bite at Robin’s lower lip, and Robin makes a small sound that sends desire plummeting between Nancy’s legs. She feels the wet heat peel open and she holds onto the side of Robin’s neck as if she were an anchor, kissing her over and over, drowning, drowning.

Fragmented thoughts come to her like flashes in the dark. _I never knew I needed this. I’ve wanted this for so long. I want – I need –_

Their mouths part. Nancy’s eyes, low and heavy, pouring into Robin’s. Their breathing clouds between them.

“Nancy,” Robin whispers, her voice harsh in the languid air. “I wouldn’t – I’m not good for you. I shouldn’t –”

“Logically, yes,” Nancy murmurs. “But –”

Robin’s pupils are swollen as black moons.

“You’re right,” she says, “screw it.”

And this time, when they kiss, it is Nancy’s hand on Robin’s waist, Nancy’s fingers tripping on buttons, her mouth on Robin’s jugular.

It is she who opens Robin up like a hothouse flower. At last. They are deliciously alone.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [here](https://sevensided.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


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